He's lying on his side, his back against where the door was blocking, his face slack and gray. His eyes are closed. He's not moving.
And scattered across the tile around him are white pills. At least a dozen or more, some still in a cluster near his open hand, others rolled into the corners of the room. An orange prescription bottle lies empty beside him, the cap off.
"No, no, no, no—"
I drop to my knees beside him, my hands shaking so badly I can barely function. I press my fingers to his neck, searching desperately for a pulse.
Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead.
There. Faint, but there. A flutter under my fingertips. Weak and slow, but present.
He's alive. Thank God, he's alive.
"Jay! Jay, wake up!" I grab his shoulders and shake him hard, but he doesn't respond. His head lolls to the side, his body a dead weight on the floor. "Come on, come on, wake up! Please wake up!"
I look at the pills on the floor, trying to count them through my panic, trying to figure out how many he took. But I don't know how many were in the bottle to start. I don't know if what's on the floor is all of them or just the ones he dropped. Did he take ten? Twenty? Fuck, I don't know what they are. I think he mentioned Xanax before.
I should call 911. But I'm scared to. What if they lock him up somewhere? Jail? Or in a psychiatric hold? If I call 911, he'll be back in the system again. He just started probation two weeks ago. Fuck! If they find him like this, with pills and alcohol, what happens? Does he go to jail? Does he violate probation?
He's got to wake up. "Jay!" I shout at him, shaking him as much as I can. "Wake up! Please!"
I need to know how many pills he took. What he took on top of an entire bottle of liquor. I lean into the shower and crank the cold water on full blast. The pipes groan and shudder, and then icy water is spraying forcefully against the tile. I grab a washcloth from the rack, soak it under the freezing stream, and rush back to Jay.
"Come on, Jay. Come on." I press the cold cloth to his face, rubbing it across his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. "Wake up. Please wake up. Please."
His eyelids don't even flutter.
I slap his face lightly, then harder when that doesn't work. "Jay! Can you hear me? You have to wake up! Please!"
Nothing. His face is slack, unresponsive. He's so pale he looks almost gray.
I'm crying now, tears streaming down my face unchecked, mixing with the water dripping from the washcloth. I drag him toward the shower, his body heavy and awkward in my arms, dead weight. I pull him half-upright against the tub, his head lolling.
"Please," I sob, the word tearing out of me from somewhere deep. "Please, God, if you're there, if you're real, if you've ever listened to anyone—please don't let him die. I just found him. Please don't take him away from me now. Please."
I angle the showerhead toward him and let the freezing water hit the back of his head, his shoulders. His body jerks slightly at the cold but his eyes stay closed, his face unchanged.
"Please give us another chance," I beg, not even sure who I'm talking to anymore—God, the universe, fate, Jay himself. "I'll take better care of him, I swear. I can help him. I know I can help him if you just give me one more chance. I'll do anything. I'll give anything. Just please let him live. Please, God. Please."
I'm bargaining, making promises I don't know if I can keep, saying anything, everything, whatever it takes. "I love him," I whisper, breaking completely. "I've loved him my whole life. Since I was twelve years old. Please don't take him from me. Please. He's all I have. He's everything. Jay is everything."
For what feels like an eternity, nothing happens. He just sits there, slumped against the tub, water streaming over him, his face slack and lifeless. I hold him and rock him and pray and beg, the cold water soaking through our clothes.
Please. Please. Please.
Then he gasps.
His whole body convulses violently, his eyes flying open suddenly, wild and unfocused and terrified. He sputters and chokes, choking on the water running into his mouth, his hands flailing weakly against my chest.
"Jay! Thank God! Jay, can you hear me?"
His eyes find my face, and then he shatters completely.
"No," he croaks, absolutely wrecked. "No, don't look at me. You shouldn't be here."
He tries to turn away, tries desperately to hide his face, but he's too weak to move more than a few inches. I catch his chin gently and turn him back toward me, and he squeezes his eyes shut like he can't bear to see me.
"Jay, look at me. Please look at me."
